Blood is Thicker Than Friendship
by Sherlock Cumberbatch
Summary: John Watson needs to feed, as all vampires do. He needs dinner. An attractive male preferably. Good thing a tall, dark and handsome stranger comes out of St Bart's Hospital as he's walking down the road one night. Let's hope he tastes delicious. Vampire!John


**Ah! To be back again! I did miss writing. Nice to be back. I'll probably post a few more soon. I was really in the mood for a nice vampire fic, and my mind just lead me to this. I enjoy sad endings. Yes, the ending is a bit of a mad idea, so just bear with me. I thought it was alright. So enjoy!**

**This is meant to be Martin Freeman and Benedict Cumberbatch's Sherlock.**

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The tang of blood was what he need right now. To have the feeling of it flowing down his throat and dripping off his chin. He needed to feed, as all Vampires do. To suck and sink his teeth into some unknown male; preferably attractive. He liked his prey to be pretty. To be sexy. To be loud. He liked when they screamed. When they are penetrated through the neck, it tends to become vocal, and John loved it. He needs the fight as much as he needs the blood.

The feeling of his dead heart give a quick twang as he locates his victim. The feeling of success when he finally chats them up. The feeling of joy when they head outside, followed by heaving snogging. But the feeling of pain is wonderful. When he bites too hard, the fight becomes physical. The punches come in, the shouts, the kicks... Then the pleas. To hold some human's worthless life in your hands is an indescribable feeling. The power of life and death. Seeing the last twinkle in their eye as you tuck into your dinner and drain them of everything they ever were.

That's what John needed right now.

But there was no one around. No one good anyway. On the crisp cold Sunday night on Giltspur Street, John walked down the deserted road. On a Sunday night, people go to bed, ready for the morning of a boring Monday. Even for a road with St Bart's Hospital on it, it all just seemed empty.

Kicking a stone, John skipped lightly and hummed a jolly little tune by Tommy Roe about a girl named Hazel. It had always one of John's favourites. He remembered when the song first came out in 1966, he was 114 at the time.

A sudden loud bang caused John to stop humming and turn around. He saw a quick flash of light as a door into the Hospital opened and close quickly, letting out a tall, thin, dark hair man who seemed quite agitated. Perfect.

"Damn Mycroft." Tall, dark and handsome seemed to mutter under his breath. John kept himself in the shadows as he observed his possibly next dinner.

He followed the man in the coat down a few more roads, and even down a small alley. This was his time to shine. This time, he'll use the Cockney accent, just to piss the bloke off.

"A'ight mate?" John asked the stranger, acting slightly drunk for extra effect. "Not lost, are ya? Ya seem to be on the road to nowhere."

The beautiful man's ice glare tore right through John's and with a deep voice told him, "Go away, I have no time for your drunken senselessness." Then, with a flick of his coat, he started off in the opposite direction to John. Oh, this is going to be a challenge. He followed.

"Oi, mate, I was just tryin' to help. Seein' if you needed help or somethin'."

He caught up with the taller one and patted his shoulder, which caused his dinner to attack him instead. The next thing John knew, his face was being squashed up against the brick wall in the small, almost pitch black alley, with an ungodly breath washing over his neck. Goosebumps appeared on his deathly white skin.

He could feel the heat of the man's breath next to his ear. Though John could probably overpower this poor soul, but he wanted to see, to wait, just a little longer to see how this played out.

"I do not need help. I do not need you. Unless you can tell me a way to figure out the murder of Joseph Kingsley without a blood sample, you are of no use to me. I give you a warning. Leave me be."

His voice growled with anger and with one last harder shove against the wall, he let go of John and continued on his way to wherever it is he was going. But he won't get far.

John wanted more. The man had brilliant stature and muscle, and from the sound of it, confidence and intelligence. Oh yes, this one shall be very tasty indeed.

Letting go of his persona, John easily picked himself off the gound and, as quick as lightning, appeared in front of the man.

As his dinner tried to attack once again, John grabbed his wrists and held them in the air above them, looking him in the eyes with his cold, lifeless ones. He then shoved his captive against the wall, though still facing him. Bringing his lips to the man's ear, John licked it and moaned in delight.

"I bet you taste gorgeous." He seductively whispered in the other's ear before biting it. His captive made a loud scream, which just made john to enjoy it all the more. "I am a very dangerous thing. I have killed more men than you could believe. Men like you." He then licked the now bleeding bite mark and savored the copper taste of fresh blood.

John moaned again in his ear once more kissing it. Kissing the top of the ear to the lobe, to under he ear and finally, the neck. It was still accessible, even while holding this beautiful man's arms above his head.

He licked and sucked and very lightly bit a nice tender piece of flesh on this man's body, but not actually piercing the skin. "What's your name?" John asked, not caring about the struggles or whimpers of the man above him.

"Why do you care?" He spat back at John softly, spittle flying from his mouth in even more anger.

"Because," John now used one hand to keep his captive's arms high, and used the other to gently stroke this man's cheek and jawline. Such beauty. Such perfection. "I like to know the name of someone before I devour them." A cheeky wink from John caused the other man to stare at him with slightly wide eyes.

"So," John tried again, stroking his cheek again. "What. Is. Your. Name?" He said, pausing after every word. His free hand went from the man's cheek, down his neck and to his chest. Which impressed John. A nice muscular torso, but still slim and fit. He ran his hands over the muscles and lightly scratched him through his shirt.

"Sherlock." Said the man in a tight whisper.

"Sherlock." John repeated curiously. "Sherlock." He looked him up an down. "I knew a Sherlock once." He told him. "Lovely chap. Smoked a pipe." He suddenly dove his head into the man's collar and sniffed his captive before continuing. "Though the amount of tobacco he smoked made his blood taste of... Ash." With his last word, John licked the spot when he was about to make his mark.

"It's a pity he couldn't figure me out before it became too late. I just couldn't help it. He was too tempting... Just. Like. You."

He bit into Sherlock, who howled like a Banshee at the tremendous pain. He struggled and tugged and tried to kick, but nothing worked against the 158 year old. John could see Sherlock's blood loss affecting him. He started to weaken. Oh god, did he taste good. He tasted like the food of gods. He could feel the heat as he swallowed the thick liquid down his throat. Faster. Faster. He must have more.

He sucked and moaned as he pulled away quickly; having himself a break before continuing. Sherlock had drooped down the brick wall and was only really being held up by the strength John possessed.

John let Sherlock drop to the ground with a thud. Sherlock's eyes were dazed and losing their colour. His face was flustered and pale, leaving the bite mark a lovely bright red against the white skin.

"Ple-" Sherlock struggled to groan. "Stop."

John knelt down to Sherlock, resting his bend legs either side of Sherlock's and started laughing softly. "Oh dear!" He said sarcastically, "If I had let every meal go that had said that to me, I'd never have eaten."

John looked at Sherlock's droopy eyes. "I am sorry." He sincerely told him. "You are a lot like the Sherlock I knew." John's eyes seemed to drift away in memory.

"He was fantastic... Brilliant." His eyes caught Sherlock's again, and for a second, just a split second, he thought he saw his Sherlock again; the Sherlock he knew over 100 years ago.

His expression turned quickly to angry. "Sherlock is now dead. Just like every one else I loved!" His phase of sadness turned into a revenge like passion and he bit back into Sherlock's neck, and drained. He sucked and oh god, once again, it was pure bliss to feel such a rare blood run through him. He didn't know what made this type rare, it wasn't a medical thing, every person's blood tasted different, it was rare to find one so mouth watering. And so attractive. He sucked and sucked until he could suck no more.

Finally, after a good 10 minutes, he wiped his chin of the blood that had trickled down his face and onto his suit. He closed his eyes to concentrate on the last taste of blood from his meal.

He opened his eyes; and staring back was two ice cold eyes. He studied the corpse of his meal. His face was sunken, outlines of the skull were becoming visible. His skin was now white as a sheet,with the exception of the large bags under his eyes. His purple shirt was stained with his own blood that had fallen from the lips of his murderer.

John couldn't give a care to any of these things with any victim he took life from. But the only thing that had disturbed John was the expression on Sherlock's face. It was of acceptance and sadness.

No other had had the same reaction to being killed by John... Except one.

Both Sherlocks that had appeared in John's life were so similar in nearly every way. Maybe he had just killed his second chance of being with Holmes once more. Like the old times. Maybe he had killed someone else's Holmes.

The idea of those things had made his cold, dead heart sink. He had killed Sherlock again.


End file.
